


The Beginning

by Rising_Phoenix



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25342795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rising_Phoenix/pseuds/Rising_Phoenix
Summary: When Nicky met Joe.When Joe met Nicky.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 15
Kudos: 200





	The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt to write something since I got hit by the truck called Writer's Block...

**_1099 AD_ **

This was hell.

It had to be.

There was no other explanation.

He had tasted his own blood. Had tasted the bile rising up his throat at the sound of the screams of his comrades, of the fellow crusaders who had traveled to this far land to free it from the infidels who were inhibiting the lands for centuries, screams of pain, of fear, of death. Had heard the screams of the horses falling in battle, of the birds circling the sky waiting for food. Had heard his own screams.

He had felt his throat cut by the scimitar of the Islamic soldier who had confronted him, a man his size and build, but quicker and more agile than himself, who was restricted by the heavy chainmail that restricted him in his movements. His helmet was long gone, smashed off his head by a strong hit when a horse had pushed him over. His own horse, that chestnut stallion he had chosen in the morning, suffered a quick death under the hailstorm of arrows the enemy had fired at them.

Not like him.

His death had been painful, his blood gushing out of his cut open throat, the man who had sliced him open standing above him, panting and holding the scimitar that was still wet with his blood. He raised a hand to his throat, feeling the blood pulse out of him, leaving his body, making him weaker by the second.

Until...

Until the wound suddenly moved under his spread fingers, his flesh throbbing and knitting itself together. The wound closing.

He looked up, his other hand still holding the hilt of his sword and when he saw the other man frown, he let his own blade slide upwards and dig into the chest of the other, who fell to his knees as well, his chest now showing a wide-open gash, blood pouring out of him, eyes wide in shock and surprise, black eyes that were looking right into his own.

He had seen him before. Somewhere. Some time. He had seen him. He knew him.

He knit his brows together, frowning himself, and then followed the look of the man, who was looking at his own chest, seeing how his own flesh mirrored what had happened on the throat of the other man moments before.

His flesh was healing.

Both of them looked up, looking at each other, looking for an answer, but there was none.

Instead, there was the will to survive.

They both were on their feet seconds later, attacking again, almost jumping in fight, falling down and rolling in a deadly embrace over the ground. The man with the black eyes grabbed a rock and before the crusader could react, he had smashed it down onto his head. Again. And again. Until he heard his skull crack and the world went dark.

Only to be lit up with bright light moments later.

His eyes snapped open and again he stared at the man who was crouching on his chest, still holding the bloody rock in his trembling hand. Looking from it to the man who was shaking and looked at him in wonder, not understanding what had happened.

He tried to grab something to defend himself, all instincts wide awake, and found the broken sword of a dead man, not caring on which side he had fought. The slivered blade found it’s way into the other’s stomach, twisting it and pulling it out.

Blood bathed them both, intestines were pulled out of the man’s body, who looked at his own organs freed from his body, pressing a hand helpless to hold them in and fell backward, eyes directed to the cloudy sky, all live leaving them.

He crawled away from the dead man, feeling cold despite the heat of the desert, in shock despite his duty as a knight, as a crusader who had come here to fight to free this land. Only slowly he found the strength to get back to his feet and look around.

There was nobody moving. Only sand in the air, making it look like fog, a few unmanned horses walking around, the first scavengers digging into the flesh of the dead, sating their hunger for still warm flesh.

He felt nauseous, wanted to empty his stomach between the dead, wanted to scream and cry.

A sound behind him made him turn, and he saw the other man slowly raising again, coughing and panting heavily. Anger rose in him, pairing itself with his confusion and desperation.

“Why won’t you die?!” He yelled and pulled his sword over the chest of the other man who tried to avoid the strike, ducking, and still being slit open by the sharp blade. His blood gushed out of the deep wound, bathing them both in the hot red liquid that should mean finally his end.

But again, he only coughed, moaned and after having fallen down to his knees, he looked up at the crusader whose bright eyes in the color of the sea and the face covered in blood and dirt, looking at shocked and confused, as tired and exhausted as he was feeling himself. He looked down at his chest and watched how the wound knit itself together, closed and healed within seconds. Again looking up, he and the crusader stared into each other’s eyes.

“What are you?” The crusader whispered, listening to a sound and turning a little, seeing a whimpering, wounded horse several feet away, but the other man took his chance and pulled a dagger from his belt, jumped against his back and buried the short but curved blade in his flesh to the hilt.

The fell to his knees like the other had done before, like they both had done now uncountable times. He had hit his head with a rock until his skull had cracked open. Had his throat slit open. Had stared down, seeing his intestines ripped out of his stomach. Had tasted the European’s blood on his lips when he had rammed his scimitar into his chest. Both had broken down in a rain of arrows, almost holding each other. And every time, they had gotten up, wounds healed, and continued to duel while their comrades had long passed around them, while the few remaining knights of both sides had retreated to the safety of their camps.

The sandy haired crusader turned and looked up at him. His eyes a color he had not even seen when he had traveled as a merchant to Italy’s shores, pleading and filled with tears of confusion. And suddenly there was something like recognition.

He knew this man.

He had seen him before.

He knew what his voice and laughter sounded like.

He knew him.

He had dreamed of him.

Nicolo woke up, hoping that what he remembered was only a very strange and very real feeling dream. Nothing of what he remembered could have been true, could have been reality.

He shifted on the cot he was laying on, an assortment of woolen blankets and pillows, soft and smelling clean yet of something he could not quite put, not daring to open his eyes. Raising a hand, he covered his still closed eyes and tried to remember a prayer, something that would save him from whatever awaited him today, in this foreign land that he had so willingly travelled to, wanting to free the holy land of the Islamic rule. The journey here had already been torture, and many men and those who had decided to travel with them, whores, children, merchants, had left their lives before they had set foot onto the desert sand. Never would he forget the young Flemish boy, calling himself a knight but too young to know of the dangers that came with the battlefield, who was struck down by a fever before they had arrived at the lands they intended to free, his eyes so filled with fear and desperation, begging him to bring him home to his mother, to help him, to end his pain. Nicolo had not had the strength to do what the boy had asked. Instead, he had held him in his arms while he finally passed after hours of agony, and buried him at the roadside of their way, taking the silver cross he had been wearing with him, wanting to bring it back home with him. One day.

One day.

He moaned, feeling every muscle in his body on fire, a throbbing pain in his limbs, and finally decided to open his eyes and move his hand away from his face.

The room he was laying in was none he had ever seen before. The walls were whitewashed stone, probably clay or whatever the infidels used to build their houses. Nicolo did not have much of a chance yet to see what living was like in these lands, had only seen little of the markets and living habits, instead he had witnessed how his fellow crusaders had shown no mercy and slain every man, woman and child they assumed were Islamic. And he had been disgusted by their actions, their cruelty. Only seemingly he had laughed with them in the evening, shared wine and bread, but his thoughts did not stop considering that they had come here to protect their religious heritage, to free the land Jesus had come from and had been buried in of those who did not believe in the same things they did. But doubt had started to grow stronger and stronger with every day.

He shifted to the side, finding himself undressed down to his undershirt, and found a tray with some fruit and bread next to him, making him frown. Someone had not only brought him here, but also provided nourishment for when he regained consciousness.

“You’re awake,” a voice said from his left and he almost jumped at the sudden sound and stared wide-eyed at the man standing there.

Black hair fell in waves over the shoulders of a man around the same age as him, a short beard masking a handsome face and the eyes as black as the hair in the dim light. He too was only wearing an undershirt but still wore tan trousers while being barefoot.

He knew this man.

He had seen him on the battlefield.

He had killed him. Over and over.

And had been killed by him.

Until...

“What happened?” He asked, not even surprised that the other spoke Italian and could understand him.

“I don’t know,” the other said, not moving from where he was standing. “I don’t know.”

“I dreamed of you,” Nicolo told the stranger, who looked like he did not know what to do with his hands, shifting from one foot to the other and looking at the floor.

Only at Nicolo’s words, he looked up and right into his eyes. He looked surprised, eyes wide, and then knit his brows together.

“I dreamed of you too,” he then said.

“How is this possible? How is anything of this possible,” Nicolo whispered, more to himself. “I died. I watched you die. I...”

The stranger sat down, pulling one leg up and stared again at the floor.

“I killed you,” he then said.

Nicolo nodded, knowing that he was carrying the same guilt, knowing he had tried to take the life of this stranger, like he had taken the lives of others without thinking.

He felt tears rising and swallowed them down, not wanting to show this weakness. Not to the enemy. Not to the man he was taught to hate. Not to him.

The other seemed to blink a few times and then raised his gaze to the ceiling, looking like he was searching for answers himself.

“I don’t understand,” the man whispered. “I don’t understand what is going on. How is this possible?”

“Do you think God...?”

Again the man turned to look at Nicolo, but no longer with the weary sadness he had been wearing before, but with something close to amusement in his eyes.

“Do you think God picked a side?”

“My God is not your God.”

The man raised a brow.

“There is only one God, no matter what we call him,” he said. “This is...something else. I have dreamed of you as long as I live. I dreamed of a boy with hair like the sand of the Maghreb and eyes like the ocean. I asked my mother if someone like that could exist, and she laughed at me. I traveled to Italy, and I never found you. When I saw you on the battlefield, I first thought you were only a mirage, but then I thought I was maybe meant to kill you,” he continued, now waiting for Nicolo’s reaction. “Maybe I am meant to live with you instead. Live for you.”

Nicolo raised his brows, remembering how he had dreamed of the black-haired boy in a land of sand when he had been younger, how he had compared every one he met with the boy who had owned his heart without existing. The few lovers he had taken in his life, he had imagined a different face on them, a different body. Not the smooth and curvy lines of a girl or woman, but sinewy muscle and strong arms holding him, a beard tickling his skin and those coal-black eyes looking at him in adoration.

“Impossible,” he whispered. “I have...”

He hesitated, not certain if he should tell the other that he thought the same, felt the same. That he did not know what to make of these forbidden emotions.

This was the enemy. And even worse, he was a man. Back at home, he would be hanged or burned to death for desiring a man instead of a woman and he was sure that the culture of the other would not be more accepting of something like this, something like...

The man stood up, and while doing so, their hands touched for a second, making them hold their breath and looking at each other.

It was a smile they shared. Subtle and hesitant, a little shy and insecure.

“You should rest some more,” the man said. “I will have something to eat prepared when you wake up again.”

Nicolo gave another nod.

“Hey,” Nicolo said when the man stood up completely, and turned to leave the room again. “What is your name?”

The man turned around, his black eyes glowing in the light and showing mischief and more emotions than Nicolo had ever seen in another man, nor in another woman.

“Yusuf,” he said, a smile on his lips. “My name is Yusuf.”

Yusuf returned a few hours later, finding the Italian asleep under the blankets. He looked at peace, the muscles of his body and face relaxed, as if he was sleeping in a safe place and not the house of the enemy, an empty house that maybe had belonged to someone killed in the battle that was behind them, that only few had survived. He smiled at the sleeping man, taking in his strong nose and only slightly tanned skin. Even asleep, Yusuf remembered the color of his eyes. Seafoam, pale and intense. They should be cold, being of this color, but there was a warmth in them that had touched Yusuf’s heart.

He put the tray he was carrying carefully down, not making a sound, not wanting to wake the other up, but his mere presence caused him to shift in his stir in his sleep. His eyelids fluttered and the whispered something that Yusuf could not make out, still not quite used to the foreign language he had not spoken in many years, and then smiled when the crusader opened those mesmerizing eyes and blinked a few times until he looked at the man crouching next to the cot. 

“Roasted fish and sibagh,” Yusuf said, nodding towards the tray. “And fruit. It’s good.”

The crusader sat up, the blanket sliding up his naked leg, which he covered immediately.

“You made this yourself?”

Yusuf nodded with a smile, sitting now down next to the other.

“We both need food,” he said. “Though I think we will not starve.”

The Italian stared at him and then only nodded, taking some of the fish between the fingers of his left hand and then saw Yusuf frown.

“Barbarian,” he laughed at him. “You eat it like this. Use your right hand.”

The Italian raised a brow but returned Yusuf’s laughter with a smile, taking up the food with his right hand and putting it between his full lips. At the moan that left his mouth, the other man looked at him in surprise.

“This is delicious,” he moaned and took some more.

“I appreciate the...,” Yusuf started. “I don’t know the word. Saying something nice?”

“Compliment?”

“Yes. That,” Yusuf grinned. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“Your Italian is very good. How did you learn it?”

Yusuf swallowed some of the food he had put into his mouth and gave a short nod.

“I traveled with merchant ships to Sicily, making business,” he said.

“Ah,” the other made, eating some more, enjoying the unknown flavors that filled his senses.

They ate for a while in silence, until Yusuf leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, rubbing his stomach with one hand.

“I’m full,” he laughed.

The other let himself fall down onto the cot, grinning at the ceiling.

“Oh, yes. Very full.”

Yusuf watched the other for a moment, how his eyes lit up even more in a never before seen light and intensity.

“You never told me your name,” he then said, his hand casually touching the leg of the other man through the blanket, a touch that neither of them seemed to mind.

The crusader turned his head to look at him, and their eyes looked deep into those of the other,

“Nicolo,” he whispered.

Yusuf showed a bright smile.

“Nicolo,” he repeated, feeling warmth and something he had never felt before.

They smiled at each other.

Two enemies who had only hours ago tried to kill each other.

Again and again.

And who now knew that without the other, life would be without light.

It was a beginning.


End file.
